"Break it up, gents, break it up."
Harry turned to see Hagrid pushing his way through the crowd. He forcefully pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart.
Mr. Weasley scowled and adjusted his robes, while his wife fumed silently. Mr. Malfoy glared right back.
Harry was a bit confused. He didn't understand a few things. One, why had Mr. Weasley attacked Mr. Malfoy with his fists when he had a wand in arm's reach? Two, why had Mr. Malfoy riled up Mr. Weasley when they were in public? Did he want Mr. Weasley to attack him? Three, why did Hagrid not notice that he was choking Mr. Malfoy with his robes, he was making noises that clearly meant he couldn't breathe-?!
Mr. Malfoy managed to pull himself out of Hagrid's grip with a scowl, gasping and massaging his throat. He shoved Harry's Break With a Banshee at him and growled, "Draco, we're leaving."
Harry took the book and said quietly, "Thank you, sir."
Mr. Malfoy gave him a startled look before grabbing Draco's shoulder and marching off, dragging his son with him.
When Harry went to put his book back in his bag, he frowned. It was a bit thicker and heavier than usual. He shrugged, dismissing it as his imagination, and put it away.
"A fine example to set for your children!" Mrs. Weasley snarled at her husband. "Brawling in public! What Gilderoy Lockhart must have thought...!"
Harry frowned. Wasn't Mr. Weasley her husband? Why didn't she care more about him? His lip was bleeding and his face was covered in bruises, and all she cared about was what Gilderoy Lockhart thought.
Adults were confusing.
----------------
Later that day, after dinner, Harry decided to reorganize his books. He pulled them out of his trunk and began putting them in small piles.
Ron burst into the room just as Harry had finished, shouting, "Did you see Dad today? How he just jumped at Malfoy's dad? That was amazing!"
As he barged in, he knocked over the pile of Herbology and History, and, like dominos, that knocked over all the other piles. Harry sighed.
"Ron, could you please not shout?" Harry asked softly, rubbing his head as he started organizing again.
"I wasn't shouting," Ron said indignantly, in a slightly quieter voice, but it was still rather loud for Harry's sensitive ears. "What are you doing, anyway?"
"Organizing my books, so I can find them easier," Harry responded calmly. "I don't know about you, but I would rather not get on Professor Snape's bad side this year."
Ron snorted. "Good luck. He hates you no matter what you do." He started bouncing on his bed, babbling loudly about school.
Harry had just finished organizing his books when he frowned. He had one extra book. Had he counted wrong? He went through the books again, carefully, and found a small, blank, black book.
Harry frowned further. He was sure he hadn't purchased this, and it certainly didn't belong to the Weasleys; it was clearly well-cared for, it was also very old, and Harry had never seen it before. Maybe it had fallen into his bag...?
He opened it carefully to the first page. The only words on the page, written in Slytherin silver ink, were T. M. Riddle.
Riddle? Harry had no idea who that was.
After about two minutes, the only things Harry found out about Riddle was: either he never wrote in the diary, or he didn't trust anyone not to read his diary, so he hid whatever he wrote.
Harry bit his lip and glanced at Ron. His friend was snoring loudly, his mouth hanging open, drool hanging from one lip.
Slowly, not really having any idea what he was doing, Harry took a pen ⎯ he preferred them to quills ⎯ out of his trunk and placed the tip on the paper.
My name is Harry Potter.
The words shone on the page for a few seconds before, to Harry's great astonishment, they faded away. So that was how he hid the entries!
And then, to his further astonishment, more words appeared on the paper, written in the same silvery, neat writing as Riddle's name had been.
My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?
Harry stared at the diary for a moment before those words, too, faded away. After a pause, he wrote back.
My aunt has told me many times not to talk to strangers.
The answer came back quickly.
Smart. However, the diary you possess is incredibly important to me. One would say its importance is life-or-death. You do not have to tell me anything about yourself, just tell me how you got it.
Harry thought for a moment, then answered carefully.
I don't actually know how I got it. One minute I didn't have it, the next I did. I'm pretty sure it used to be in Flourish and Blotts. I'm sorry, should I give it back?
The answer was sharp and angry. No! That word disappeared, and, in a calmer tone, Riddle explained.
I am fairly sure that this diary was not in Flourish and Blotts. Even if it appears that I have never written in it, they would have tried everything to find the previous owner before putting it on their shelves.
When Harry finished reading this, he had an inkling of how he got the diary.
I... think Mr. Malfoy might have slipped the diary into one of my school books. He was fighting with Mr. Weasley, and he used my school book to hit his face and slipped it in while no one was looking. I'm not sure why he gave it to me.
There was a long pause. Finally more words appeared.
By any chance is Mr. Malfoy's first name 'Abraxas?'
Harry stared at the diary in bewilderment. No. I think his name is Lucius.
There was another pause. What year is this, Harry?
Harry frowned. 1992.
Riddle's answer was amused. Ah. Then Lucius must be Abraxas' son. You see, Harry, it's been fifty years since I bought this diary.
Fifty years? Harry was astounded. How can you not remember anything, then?
The answer was worrying, and confusing.
Because I have been trapped in this diary for fifty years. I am the sixteen-year-old version of Tom Riddle. The last thing I recall was my sixth year at Hogwarts.
Harry blinked as the words disappeared. Then he scribbled a reply.
How the Merlin does that work?!
It was a while before Riddle answered. When he did, Harry had to stifle a blush.
You are incredibly amusing, Harry. I'm afraid I can't really explain it to you. As you said, one must not talk to strangers.
Harry bit his lip thoughtfully. Finally, he wrote a reply.
Then let's not be strangers. Let's be friends.
Friends? Riddle's question was either confused or interested.
Friends, Harry agreed. You're quieter than Ron, and you don't sound like you think you're smarter than everyone, like Hermione.
Are Ron and Hermione your other friends?
Yeah, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, Harry wrote. Ron is loud and doesn't like doing homework, and Hermione thinks she's better than everyone and claims someone is cheating if they get higher grades than her.
He'd once found one of his essays in the fireplace in Gryffindor common room. He'd been devastated; it had been one of the best essays he'd ever written. He knew Hermione had done it because she'd looked faintly smug when she caught him looking.
Harry realized Riddle had responded and quickly read it before the words disappeared.
They sound like terrible friends. Very well, Harry. We will try to be friends.
Harry smiled.